


Mafiatalia Scotland

by PoisonedBite



Series: Mafiatalia [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Human, F/M, Historical Hetalia, Human & Country Names Used (Hetalia), Human England (Hetalia), Human Scotland (Hetalia), Multi, Original Hetalia Character(s), Other, Scotland/Monaco (Hetalia)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:14:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23272297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoisonedBite/pseuds/PoisonedBite
Summary: Collection of Mafia-AU Scotland short fics.
Series: Mafiatalia [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1594024
Kudos: 2





	1. The end of an engagement

**Author's Note:**

> Scotland had proposed to Monaco, the seeming love of his life. However it seemed his step mother had different ideas about the ordeal. 
> 
> Contains Depictions of Violence

Standing in the foyer of their large house, a young man sporting long crimson hair waited somewhat impatiently for his betrothed to arrive, and before long he resorted to pacing. Where was she? She was supposed to be here already. He groaned loudly and rolled his eyes when his father called out to him.  
“Oi! Boy! Ye've got so much energy, run to town and make sure my shipment's been dealt with properly why don't ya?” He heard his father shout from the living room and he cursed his luck.  
“Uh, Da'?” He started to object, ready to claim that he was already busy.  
“Ye heard me the first time boy, now do as ye've been told!” The older man growled back in return, clearly not in the mood to hear his son's excuses.  
The young man sighed and shook his head, grabbing his jacket as he yanked open the front door. “Aye Da'....” He relented without anymore argument.  
It wasn't long after, that a pretty blonde woman showed up on the doorstep, nervously glancing around as she twisted the elegant ring wrapped round her finger. Before she had the chance to knock, the door swung open and she breathed a sigh of relief, expecting to see her crimson haired beloved. That breath however caught in her throat when she was surprised by the face of an older woman, a slightly unnervingly polite smile gracing her face.  
“You're here to see Scotland aren't you.” The woman raised an eyebrow, a knowing look on her face as she let the young girl into the house.  
“Yes ma'am” the young girl answered, a french accent tangling round her words and making her sound even more timid than the slight bow of her head hinted at.  
“Well, his father's sent him off to town to run some errands, but he should be home soon.” The older woman sighed, closing the door behind her guest.  
“Come, join me in the kitchen. We can chat until he gets back. I believe we've a lot to discuss, Monaco.”  
The older woman's friendliness set the young girl's nerves at ease, and she wondered why her betrothed had spoken so poorly of his mother. So far, Britannia seemed nothing less than pleasant. So, with a nod, Monaco allowed the woman to lead her into the kitchen, wondering why the house seemed so empty.  
“Excuse the mess, you see, we weren't expecting company.” Britannia stated, clearing a few left over dishes from the table before starting tea.  
The statement caused the french girl to furrow her brows slightly, sure that Scotland had told his family she was coming today.  
“So, tell me all about yourself, Scottie has not been generous with his description of you.” Britannia stated, taking a seat at the table, and gesturing Monaco to join her.  
Monaco only offered a small smile before doing as she'd been asked to. “Well, I suppose there's not much to tell. I was raised in France with my older brother.” She started out, giving small details about herself, wondering why Scotland had not told his family about her already.  
Britannia only smiled and nodded along with most of it, until Monaco brought up Scotland.  
“Your son is such a gentleman, you must be very proud of him.” She stated, attempting to step a bit out of the spotlight. However, the flinch that Britannia couldn't control at mention of Scotland being her son, did not go unnoticed by the french girl.  
“Yes, yes. Quite the gentleman...” Britannia agreed halfheartedly. “Tell me, however did the two of you meet?” She questioned, raising an almost suspicious eyebrow.  
Monaco smiled softly and tilted her head, clearly fond of the memory. “It's a bit of a funny story actually.” She started out before shaking her head. “You see, my brother had taken me with him to deal with a bit of business, but had gotten a tad carried away and forgotten me behind. Scot found me wandering around hopelessly lost and offered his arm and a flower. Guiding me back to where I was supposed to be, and helping me find my brother again. He was quite sweet about it.” She stated, glancing down to the ring that the man in question had given her only weeks before.  
“Well, that's quite a relief.” Britannia gave a soft sigh and a smile, pouring them both another cup of tea.  
Monaco furrowed her eyebrows, confusion clearly overtaking her previously happy expression. “Pardon?” She questioned, asking for clarification.  
Britannia shook her head and waved it off. “It's nothing dear. You're just not quite what I was expecting from Scotland.” She stated, hiding the glint in her eye. Quickly clarifying further for the now somewhat offended looking girl. “Oh it's not a comment against you deary. You're practically perfect. So much better than I could have ever expected. Given Scotland's past and his description of you.”  
Any trace of happy expression left Monaco's face, and she turned questioning and nervous.  
Sensing the girl's unease, Britannia reached out and patted Monaco's hand. “You see, usually the girls that Scottie brings home are quite... distasteful... He never used to pick anyone as perfect as you.” She stated, before looking down at Monaco's hand, as if noticing the ring for the first time. “...Oh...” Britannia gave an almost sorry look. “He gave you that old thing did he? I didn't think I'd ever see it again. Not after... Well, that doesn't matter anymore now does it. You have it now, and I think it suits you perfectly. So much better than the last one.” Britannia stated, faking a confused look when Monaco quickly pulled away in shock, looking down at the ring on her finger.  
“Isn't this your ring?” Monaco questioned, having been told that it was his mother's ring. Britannia was his mother, wasn't she?  
“My ring?” Britannia questioned, clear confusion ringing through her fake tone. “No, that's not my ring. I've never worn it a day in my life.” She stated with a solid shake of her head and a furrowed brow.  
Monaco's breath caught in her throat and she quickly stiffened. “I'm. I'm sorry, but I think I'd best go... I'm not feeling very well.” She stated, standing up from her chair.  
“Oh dear, do you need to lie down? We have a spare room that you could use.” Britannia attempted to 'aid' the girl, also standing from her chair.  
“No, no, it's fine. I'll just come back another time. Besides, I think I left the kettle on at home.” She stated, taking a few uneasy steps back with a shake of her head.  
Britannia sighed and gave a nod of understanding, “I'll show you out dear.” She said, leading Monaco back to the door. “I hope you feel well soon. And of course you're always welcome here.” She stated with a smile, closing the door behind the polite girl who only gave a nod.  
She stood on the stoop for a long moment, twisting the ring round her finger before slipping it off and letting it drop to the ground, a quiet metallic 'tink' sounding out as the metal hit the cold stone step before the french girl hurried off again, tears brimming her eyes.  
From the window Britannia watched with hidden smile, her tone as fake as the words she quietly spoke out. “Oops. I hope I didn't cause any trouble between the two of them.” 

Neither of the women however, had noticed the small boy lurking in the far doorway of the kitchen for the duration of their conversation. He had heard and seen it all, though, he would never have the heart or the nerve to tell another soul of the twisted deception that had been played upon the unsuspecting girl. He knew better than to speak out about his mother. He'd learned that the hard way. 

Not long after, Scotland came back home, frustrated that he'd been sent out on a menial task that any monkey could have gone when he had more important things to be dealing with. He was supposed to introduce his fiancee to his family today, and announce their engagement. It was only by chance that he spotted the glitter of a piece of jewelry on the ground on his way in the door, and he picked it up without paying any attention fully suspecting that it was belonging to his sister, Ireland, who had a habit of dropping things of the like.  
“Your shipment's gone out fine Da'!” he called out from the door, shrugging out of his jacket to leave it in it's rightful place. Britannia often got upset when he left it laying about, and that was an argument he didn't need. “Hey South! Ya dropped this!” He shouted out to his sister, expecting her to be somewhere in the house.  
Shortly afterwards, a long mop of ginger hair bounced down the stairs. “What was that Scot?” The girl questioned with a lilt, bounding up to her older brother with a grin.  
“Ya dropped this” His words slowed as he opened his hand to reveal a ring, all to familiar and not at all his younger sisters.  
“That's not my ring Scot.” Ireland said with a shrug, “Must be Mum's”  
Scotland gripped the ring again and his eyes turned dark. “Trust me, it's not Britannia's ring.” He growled, a fist quickly hitting the corner of the wall. 

In the living room, Britannia sidled up closer to Celt, hearing the rage of the oldest sibling, prompting Celt to yell at the man in question. “Ye're scaring yer Ma'!” He shouted at Scotland, who only growled out under his breath, “She's not my mother.” He stated before turning on heel and slamming the door open.  
“Scotland dear!” Britannia called out, demanding his attention. So with a roll of his eyes, he stalked into the living room.  
“Yes Britannia?” He questioned through clenched jaw, trying to keep his temper in check knowing what the result would be should he not.  
“There was a young girl here to see you earlier. Monaco I believe was her name? Oh whatever, I suppose that doesn't much matter, but she said to tell you she was sorry she missed you. It seemed like she had something important to tell you. She hurried off quite quickly when she discovered you weren't home.” Britannia's overly sweet voice only aggravated him more and he once again turned on heel and stormed off, this time slamming the door behind him.  
“Where are you going Scot?” Ireland called out the door after him.  
“Drinking!” Was his only answer as he shoved the ring in his shirt pocket, stalking down the road away from his house to seek refuge in the house of his closest friend, Denmark, to deal with the pain the best way he knew how to, fighting and drinking. 

He would never tell Denmark why he suddenly showed up on their doorstep, or what had happened to the girl he was so serious about. Not that Denmark would ever ask.  
No matter how hard his family pestered, they would never learn who that girl had been, or why he had become so easily angered by a ring. They needn't know, after all, she'd left him. So what did it matter anymore. He'd lost her. He'd failed. And he would swear to never love like that again.


	2. The War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains depictions of violence

March 12th 1916

Denmark looked down at the man he had once called friend, who sat on the ground holding his jaw and growled out lowly. "Get outta here Scot! Next time I see ya, I'm gonna kill ya." He threatened, kicking some dirt up in Scotland's face before turning on his heel and stalking back into the house. After a moment, Scotland pulled himself up off the ground and dusted himself off, head still ringing a bit from Denmark's right hook. After spitting out some blood, he turned and left, muttering to himself lowly. "He'll come 'round. Give 'im some time" He advised himself, trying to keep from turning right back round and marching inside to explain things, figure out why Denmark was so hellbent on killing them all. It couldn't just be what North had done, could it?   
It was a long trip back home, where his father was waiting rather impatiently to see him, arms crossed and eyebrow raised as Scotland walked through the door, however when Scotland shook his head and sighed, pushing his long hair back out of his face his father's look turned stern once more. "Ye'd better fix this boy…" he warned and Scotland rolled his eyes. "Ah will Da' just, gotta give 'em some time. Le' 'im cool off a bit" he sighed and stalked off to go get a drink and some ice.

Not but a day later, Ireland came round to him as he cleaned up the cut on his cheek from Den's fist. "Letter for ya Scot!" She stated, dropping the envelope in front of him, and when he opened it up, his mind raced and his heart sank. "Ye've gotta be fuckin' kiddin' me…." He muttered under his breath. A conscription letter from the British Army to go fight in the Great War. He'd not enrolled, though most men his age had, because he had a family and a job here that was dangerous enough. He wasn't about to go running off all crazy to fight a bunch of Germans of his own free accord. However, it seemed he no longer had a say in the matter. All able bodied unmarried men aged 18 to 41. He was the only one of the family, 20 years old, prospects for marriage freshly thwarted, entirely able bodied. "Fuck…." 

March 23rd 1916

It almost pained him, watching the long red locks fall to the ground as a barber snipped them into regulation, shaving his face as clean as a baby's bottom was just as bad. England had all but ceased to talk to him, furious at his older brother and only safe space left for abandoning him. He'd miss the boy's 15th birthday and there was nothing he could do about it. He was shipping out the first of April to France, to Somme. There was nothing he could do about any of this. Not the bloody fucking war. Not protecting England, a boy he'd practically raised, from hell at home. Hell, he couldn't even fix things with the Nordics anymore. There wasn't time, Denmark was still furious, and Scotland was leaving in less than a week. With all of the preparations to make for the next God knows how many years of his life, there just… wasn't any time. Fixing things with Den would take months. And he had a little over a week. 

April 1st 1916

As he threw a bag over his shoulder and headed to the bus, he turned and waved to his family once more, his heart aching when he saw his blond brother to be missing. So with a nod, he turned once more and headed down the long driveway to the street, however he was stopped short by a force running full force into his back. "Come back Scot! I'll never forgive you if you don't! You hear me you big oaf?" England muttered into his back, hands fisted in his brother's uniform. Scot just chuckled and nodded, turning around to fluff the boy's hair. "Ah course I'll come back kiddo!" He teased with a smirk. "And I'll write ye too, as often as I can. Promise." He couldn't help the fond smile "Now go, 'for Da' gets mad at ye for makin' a scene." 

November 12th 1916

He didn't know what he was expecting to happen to him during this war, but this certainly wasn't it. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been in pain quite like this. Sure, he'd gotten his ass kicked plenty of times. Denmark, Scandinavia, even his own father had made sure of that. But this ripping, burning pain that sent a flash of white through his vision. He couldn't remember ever feeling something quite this painful. 'I don't think I'm gonna make it back for Christmas…. Sorry kiddo' was the last thing he remembered thinking before he felt the cold muddy ground on his face. 

November 27th 1916

Scotland didn't know whether his luck was cursed or blessed at this point. On one hand, the doctors had managed to patch him back together rather suitably and the damage that had befallen him was apparently only minimal. On the other hand, this meant he was suitable to go right back into the thick of things soon enough, they couldn't spare the soldiers now. However, this short amount of downtime did afford him a few luxuries he'd been denied as of late. Namely the ability to catch up on a few letters, both those he'd received and those he needed to send out. At first, he'd tossed away all those who'd been written to him by Brittania, her perfectly empty pleasantries only proved to aggravate him. But now, well. Now he found some small amount of comfort even in those. They were all dated to the first of each month, filled to the brim with far too many words for the simple meaning behind them. 'Nothing noteworthy is happening' being that meaning. However, they were at least consistent. The letters from England however, he treasured endlessly. They were far greater in number, albeit far more inconsistent and often shorter. Quite frequently they included at least two threats and one update on the true state of affairs amongst their family. It seemed that Brittania's assurances that nothing had changed were indeed as false as ever, although he supposed he found some comfort in knowing that perhaps he was in fact missed by at least a few members of the family. The most recent one mentioned that Celt's temper was finally the worst that England could remember, a statement that rekindled the terrible guilt Scotland had first felt upon leaving, and included the threats of England cutting holes in the toe of all of Scotland's nice socks and releasing a swarm of moths upon his favorite suits should he not return in time for Christmas dinner. Scotland couldn't help but chuckle at the thought and sigh as he penned a response which included a half hearted threat of what might befall England should Scotland return home to discover all of his civvies in a state of destruction and a thorough apology for his inevitable absence from the dinner table. He didn't however mention the sorry state of his right arm, nor the recent hell he'd faced. It was a silent agreement between the two, a facade of normalcy, what England didn't ask, Scotland wouldn't tell. 

December 25th 1916

He'd been carefully instructed by the letter not to open the parcels before Christmas day, under threat of having one eyebrow shaved off in his sleep the next time England saw him. How England would know if the parcels had been opened before he'd intended Scotland didn't know, but he fully believed it possible. As such, he did wait and stowed them away carefully inside the breast pocket of his jacket. He'd nearly forgotten it was a holiday until one of his friends laughed and grabbed him, showing off the fancy new lighter he'd received from his own family. Scotland however couldn't find his own cheer, for the holiday had never been an especially peaceful one amongst his family. Better perhaps than some, but mostly it served as a brutal reminder for how disparate and disconnected they truly were. However, upon remembering the small parcel he'd received a small smile did come to settle on his face as he hurried to open it, a scrawled note sitting on top with yet another warning of "DO NOT OPEN" which caused some amount of soft laughter as he tucked the note away once more. Beneath it sat a pair of gloves, a small slivered case with their family crest embossed on it (he recognized it to be identical to his father's cigarette case, albeit less weathered), and a small flask which, upon further inspection, contained no small amount of the expensive Scotch he used to sneak out of the decanter in his father's private study. He couldn't help but laugh lightly and shake his head, ignoring the stinging at the corner of his eyes as he shakily sat down and took a sip of whiskey, closing his eyes tightly as he tried to remember the last time he'd tasted something so nice. As he pulls the gloves on, another letter flutters out of them and he furrows his brow in confusion. "The gloves are from Britannia, she insisted on practicality. 'It is in keeping with the times that only practical gifts shall be given on this Christmas' she keeps running around quoting. Father sent the cigarette case, though the twins supplied its contents. However, I thought perhaps you might enjoy a few comforts from home, and I'm certain the Scotch won't be missed. You'd better be home for my birthday you jerk." 

April 27th 1917

He didn't make it back for his brother's birthday, and although he'd never promised to, he felt guilty nonetheless. He'd essentially written him an 'I owe you' for an undetermined item of England's choosing to be gifted to him upon Scotland's return home. England's return letter was filled with scathing remarks, half a dozen insults and no small amount of poorly thought out threats such as hiding all of the alcohol and replacing the tobacco with tea leaves once Scotland returned home. Scotland couldn't help but sigh at that response, although it was expected.

August 17th 1917

Things got worse for England over the summer, and Scotland wanted more than anything to return home to his brother who had apparently taken to spending long expanses of time away from the house if only to escape the wrath of their father. Scotland had over ever been afraid of one thing before in his life, that being his father, and it had never been nearly so bad for Scotland as it had been for England. Celt had always despised the child, who's parentage was dubious at best and at worst, silently accepted to be the result of a serious transgression on Brittania's part. He worried for his brother, who hadn't the means nor the know how to stand against Celt, and whose best hope was to avoid it as best he could. 

December 1st 1917 

A letter came to him the day after his 21st birthday, he almost didn't recognize the handwriting with messy near illegible penmanship. Brittania's was elegant and perfect, England's was comparable to chicken scratch, although he had a knack for forging the handwriting of the family when he desired to put the effort in. Wales had much the same handwriting as his mother, and Scotland wasn't even sure that the twins could write at all. However after a brief moment, he did catch on.   
"Dear son,   
I know I haven't written, however, I find myself sat in the kitchen after your siblings have retired for the evening, and it has just occurred to me that perhaps I've not said this before, so this letter will have to suffice. You've made me proud, despite your shortcomings. I expect you home within a year, don't disappoint me."   
It was signed with the familiar signature of his father… he nearly dropped the letter for the shaking of his hands as he reread the short note time and time again, trying to convince himself it was a dream or a mere forgery.   
However, the dull ache ever present in his right shoulder did little to aid the first, and even when he was angry, England would never pull such a stunt, for Celt's 'pride' in his eldest son was something he often weaponized against the others. Especially England. Be more like Scotland was a common enough phrase in their household, all of the children resented it, Scotland included. The two combined lead him to believe this must in fact be reality, as unlikely as it might see, so with an unsteady breath, he tucked the letter into his breast pocket for safekeeping and wiped his face of what he claimed to be dust, though it was clear as day to his comrades that dust didn't leave streaks in the grime they all seemed to collect these days. 

January 5th 1918

Christmas had come and gone much the same as the last had, with gifts of cigarettes and fine Scotch that England must have snatched once more. It indicated he couldn't have been too angry with him, despite previous statements of such. The letters came less frequently these days and slowly turned more formal with fewer threats and more matter of fact statements about the state of things back home. They were no longer signed with 'Come back home' or 'See you soon' and instead featured parting words such as 'signed' or 'sincerely'. Scotland started to wonder if he'd ever get back home, and clearly so did England as the boy prepared for the worst. Scotland, for his part, tried to keep his letters lighthearted and teasing in nature, using his own positivity to make up for England's lack of hope. 

April 17th 1918

Several weeks prior, Scotland had sent a letter asking England what he wanted for his birthday and had finally received a reply. "Same thing I've wanted for the past 2 years Scot…. Just kill all those damned bastards and come home already." His heart broke for his younger brother, and at that moment he wanted nothing more than to punch someone in the face, as was often his solution to someone upsetting his brother. Alas, he found that those to blame were himself, which he reasoned would be too difficult to punch, the Germans, which he reasoned would only get him shot should he try to climb out the trenches cross the field and punch, and the British Government which was unfortunately across the sea and at least one country border. However, he did vow to shoot whoever sent him to this god forsaken nation should he ever come across them. Perhaps that might make up for it eventually, though he suspected not. 

July 3rd 1918

England's letters were now dated almost regularly, one every three weeks or so, while Brittania's had slowed to one every three months. England's were curt and to the point, updates on the state of things back home, a complaint or two about any number of family members and perhaps if he was lucky a small amount of sentiment in the form of a threat or a veiled I miss you. Brittania's however carried on for forever, detailing everything she could possibly think to write about as if that would mask her displeasure in having the duty of writing these cursed letters. Scotland rarely opened them anymore, instead passing them off to some bloke unfortunate enough to not have received a letter as of late.

November 18th 1918

It was over…. The war was finally over…. Scotland had received news of it from the hospital bed he'd taken up residence of recently as the result of a rather unfortunate disagreement with a German soldier. Well, more accurately, he'd taken a bullet to the thigh, and while he was lucky enough to keep the leg, he was unluckily unable to walk again yet. He celebrated with the rest of the boys in the hospital and cheered over a bottle of cheap champagne someone had stowed away. The first letter was to England, who received only the briefest of letters yet. "I'll be home for your birthday kiddo. Mark my words, you'll regret those threats when I get my hands on you." He didn't know what else to say, what else was there to say? After all, neither had been the sentimental type before, and he hadn't the energy to start now. 

January 5th 1919 

He had bitched and moaned his way into getting a place on that boat home. Or at least that's what his friends had said with a laugh, though they felt much the same. Truth be told he'd threatened and conned his way onto that boat with a few cleverly placed glares and a carefully handled document that he'd slipped into the pile while no one paid attention to the cripple on crutches. Today was the day, finally. The boat ride had been miserable and the bus ride even worse as he gazed upon the familiar city with an air of disbelief and the strangest feeling that he didn't belong here anymore. The soldier behind him had to slap his head to knock him back to his senses when they stopped outside his large house. He nearly punched the man in his surprise, and probably would have had it not been for the seat between them, and then took a wary breath as he realized where he was. It was a struggle to be sure, balancing the bag on his good shoulder as he maneuvered the crutches out so that he could get off. "You're home son, don't look so somber" the bus driver said to him with a smile and a respectful salute to which he could only muster a "yeah" and a wince as he knocked his knee against the door on his way out the door. He watched the bus drive off behind him and if ever he had cursed having such a long and uphill trek from the street to the house, it was now. "N'er gonna get there if Ah don't start" he muttered to himself as he started about the task, getting about halfway there before the kitchen door at the side of the house opened and closed quietly, a familiar head of blonde hair circling around to the front of the house before stopping suddenly. "Hey kiddo!" Scotland called out with a wave. That seemed to be all that was needed, because rather quickly the younger boy sprinted towards him and threw his arms around Scotland's middle, knocking them both off balance and sending them harshly to the ground with several surprised and pained shouts from both of them. "You stupid bastard! You're late!!" England cried out as he hit Scotland's chest almost halfheartedly. "Nae, ah'm no' late. Ow.." he muttered lowly and England finally took note of the crutches beneath the two of them, a look of horror crossing his face before he set it back to stone and sat up quickly. "Of course you went off and got yourself shot. Useless brother of mine." He all but sneered, carefully standing up and brushing himself off as Scotland sat up. "Didn't exactly choose t' kid." He muttered before sighing and looking at his leg frustratedly. "Mind helpin' a cripple up?" He questioned, reaching a hand out as England took it and carefully helped the man up before collecting the crutches and bag off the ground, passing the former to the man and holding the latter to his side. "And ah'm no' late. Told ye ah'd be home for yer birthday, tha's no' for a few months yet." Scotland added, reaching over and ruffling England's hair as they headed up to the front door. "Scot's home!" England called out loudly as they entered the house, and quickly slipped away from the ensuing mayhem, disappearing out the door to go about doing whatever it was he'd been about to do when his brother made his long awaited reappearance.


	3. Broken Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life didn't return back to normal after his return, but that never was a fair expectation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains depictions of violence and abuse

December 1919  
It had been foolish, he supposed, to think that things might return to normal once he'd returned home. They hadn't. Things that he'd been tolerant of before now set his temper aflare and things he might have thought better about doing, he now did damn the consequences. Not to mention the lingering effects of battle, the dull noise of the trenches burned into the back of his mind, the occasional memory sparked by the smell of whatever meal Ireland had burned on the stovetop. The quiet moments that plagued him with tensed shoulders and overly active awareness of his surroundings, as if waiting for someone to jump out at him. He'd had to stop carrying his gun, much to the apparent disapproval of his father and perhaps less apparent relief of England. England, his brother, who he had reflexively pulled a gun on one late night when the boy came tumbling in through the bedroom window clearly not in the right mind. Scotland didn't even remember doing it to be completely honest, he'd been half asleep in the armchair that lived in the far corner of his room when England came unceremoniously tumbling through the open window. The first thing he realized was the gun in his hand, the second was that it was aimed at England who had frozen in fear, or perhaps shock. He immediately retracted his arm and all but dropped the gun when he finally came to his senses, sighing loudly and looking at the boy. "How many times have I told you not to surprise me like that England…" he muttered, taking his hand roughly through his hair as he stood up, England all but collapsing on the bed behind him once the immediate threat of dying had passed. "Scot…?" He muttered quietly, betrayal leaking into his shaky voice as he looked through the dimly lit room at his eldest brother. "Who else would it be kid?" Scotland sighed once more as he walked over, turning up the oil lamp on the wall to reveal his almost ragged and clearly sleep deprived form. "Thought it might be dad…. Not the first time he's pointed a gun at me." His voice slurred as he tried to stand once more, and it became quite evident to Scotland that his brother was in fact still high. "Lay down idiot." He stated, perhaps too harshly as he pushed the boy back onto the bed. "You'll wake the whole house if you go carrying on." He stated with an air of finality that England dare not argue with. "Just… sleep." He added, the weight of what had happened finally hitting him as he shook his head and blew out the light before shutting the door behind him. A drink. That's all he needed, a drink to settle his nerves.   
It never did, settle his nerves that is, but it did perhaps make the wary look England shot him now and again more bearable. Or perhaps it just dulled his senses enough that he didn't notice the caution as much as he might. The others decided not to question the ever present glass of Scotch in his hand, it made him more tolerant again and less prone to fits of violence. At least when he was drunk he wasn't as angry. 

November 1920  
Nigh on a year after almost shooting England, Scotland finally saw what he was talking about that night. It wasn't uncommon for Celt to take his anger out on the children, especially England, and it hadn't been entirely uncommon for Scotland to have to step between the two of them in the past, taking the beating in England's stead. However, he had yet to witness it since returning home. He had dared to hope that perhaps his father had finally come to accept England, or at least tolerate him, however when he heard shouting and a crash from his father's study, those hopes sank to the very pits of his stomach. He couldn't remember a time he was quicker to his feet without immediate threat to himself, and the sight he found upon opening the door nearly sent him into a rage. His feet moved without thought and before he knew it, he stood staring down the barrel of his father's prized revolver. "Move boy!" His father all but snarled as he cocked the gun. "No." Scotland spat back out, his hands shoved casually into his trouser pockets as he kept an eerily calm form. "Get out of my way Scotland, don't think I won't shoot you too." Celt threatened pressing the gun closer and Scotland only laughed. "Then do it!" He snapped with a determined look, holding his hands out to the sides. "You think I'm scared of you?" He added with a scoff and a raised brow as England clambered to his feet and fisted his hands in the back of Scotland's suit jacket. It seems some habits never died, or so Scotland thought before being brought back to the present by his father's harsh voice. "You should be, boy. You might be my son, but I'll not spare you if you continue to disobey me." He warned, never once lowering his gun. "I've fought, and killed men worse than you could ever hope to be." Scotland sneered at him. "Your gun doesn't scare me anymore than that bitch you call a wife. I've been shot more times than I care to recall, nearly died twice, and I've seen horrors that would send you to your knees." He stated, pressing forward until the barrel of the gun pressed sharply into his chest. "So if you're going to shoot me, just do it already." He added, staring his father down for a long moment until Celt finally conceded, lowering his gun and growling out. "Get out of my house." "Gladly." Scotland retorted, gesturing towards the door with an arm as he kept one eye on Celt, following closely after his brother. "Let's go to the bar, my treat." He stated as he slammed the door behind him. He chose to ignore the shudder that England let out, and the meekness of his voice as they hurried out of the house.   
“I could have handled that myself.” It was England who finally broke the silence as they made their way down into the town. “He would have shot you England…” Scotland retorted with a sigh as he glanced down at his younger brother with a shake of his head. “Hasn’t before. Like I told you, he’s pulled a gun on me before.” England all but snapped back, and Scotland winced. “You weren’t here Scot, I had to figure out how to deal with it alone.” He added, adding salt to the wound. “Right, sorry for helping then.” Scotland shrugged and ducked into the nearest bar with a shake of his head. With a wave of his hand, a bartender got him a drink and he sighed deeply before turning. He could honestly say, he was surprised to see the blond find a seat next to him at the bar. “Thanks… I guess..” England eventually muttered under his breath with a shake of his head before they fell into an almost comfortable silence. Once again however, England found himself breaking the silence with a question that had been nagging at him since the words had left Scotland’s mouth. “D’ya mean what ya said Scot?” He questioned, slipping into old habits as he looked up to his older brother. “Hmm?” Scotland raised a brow slightly and turned to look at the boy. “You heard me…” England muttered lowly and hid his face in his glass, refusing to meet the eye of his brother. “‘M not scared of him if that’s what you’re asking.” Scotland shrugged and sighed. “You never were.” England rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Tha’s not true.” Scotland added with a chuckle. “Man used to scare the shit outta me if I’m honest. But he’s nothin’ compared to what I saw in the war.” England sighed and furrowed his brows before finally turning to look at the older man seriously. “You’ve never talked about it before you know. You just shut yourself away after you got home, told us to fuck off and fell into a bottle.” England stated, dangerously close to curiosity. “Not exactly a pleasant memory Iggy.” Scotland sighed into his glass and shook his head. “Spent half the time tryin not to die from the cold, and the other half tryin’ not to get shot or blown up into lots a little pieces. It’s almost like I can still hear the sound of the guns ya know?” “...Did you really get shot?” England eventually asked and Scotland only chuckled and nodded. “Yeah, yeah I did. First time was middle of November, first year I was there, while I was still at Somme. They decided I was still fit to fight so.” “How Come you never told me?” England looked hurt, though he tried to hide it behind annoyance. “No use in worrying you now was there.” Scotland started out, but England made sure to hit him hard, right where Scotland had gestured when he mentioned being shot. “I was already worried you git! I wasn’t ignorant, I knew what was happening!” He shouted, drawing the attention of several other patrons, under whose gaze he shrank a bit. “Aye, I know… I know…” Scotland only sighed softly and shook his head once more. “Stupid wanker… I oughtta pour out your scotch and replace it with piss.” “I’d really rather you didn’t” However, Scotland couldn’t help but smile at the threat, the first he’d received in a while.


End file.
